


Vein of Copper

by ditsypersephone



Category: Poldark (TV 2015)
Genre: Badly Written Smut, M/M, Not To Be Taken Too Seriously, PWP, Slash, appearance of a completely unnecessary codpiece, crackfic, possible OOC but George is a smug git and I wanted him to be the smuggest git in this fic, that goes for Ross too, there's not even an attempt at plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-29 13:28:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10854945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ditsypersephone/pseuds/ditsypersephone
Summary: They say there is a fine line between love and hate and maybe, instead of resorting to fisticuffs, George and Ross need to exorcise their antagonism in a different way.





	Vein of Copper

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GrumpyQueer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrumpyQueer/gifts).



> This very silly story came about because my friend and I love to hate George Warleggan's smug face and think that maybe there is more to his hatred and jealousy of Ross Poldark. And we both find writing smut an agonising yet funny exercise. So of course I had to write this crackfic for them.
> 
> This piece is intended to be humorous, any glaring historical mistakes and other improbabilities are (mostly) intentional. Also, I haven't read the books, only watched the BBC series. Also, most importantly, this fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended.
> 
> Again, it's a silly, silly thing but it was an experience. I hope reading it is a good one for you.

George accepted the brandy snifter from the servant with a most regal of nods and then dismissed him with a flick of his wrist.

Once the library door closed, he swirled the amber liquid, inhaling its fine and expensive aroma. Taking a sip, he allowed the fine spirit to rest on his tongue for a bit before drinking it, appreciating the burn that warmed his throat and stomach. Nothing like the finest French brandy, paid legally and at full cost - or so he allowed others to believe.

Only the foolish rich paid for things at the price demanded and it has been his experience that those who had been born rich were most foolish indeed with their money. Not that _he_ had cause to complain, for after all, his family had profited greatly from the pride and nearsightedness of the most prominent of families in the county. To think that they who had been in the gentry for at least a century were now impoverished, while the Warleggans had become one of the most affluent in Cornwall, and only within two generations!

George smiled a smile of deepest satisfaction. How it pleased him to see men and women of good names grovel to him and his uncle, knowing that the Warleggans held the power between salvation or ruin. And how gratifying it was that those who used to be great snobs, and would not think of associating themselves with a blacksmith’s family, were now eager to invite him to all of their gatherings. And yet, of all the people whose approval he sought, the one man he wanted it of the most was determined to deny him.

But perhaps tonight, all that would change.

He glanced at the elaborate Ormolu clock on the mantelpiece, the one bought by his grandfather after his family had first amassed some significant wealth. To him it was a symbol of how far they had come and, hopefully, would still go.

He was especially keen on advancing his relationship with one particular man, who should be arriving soon.

§

His introduction to Ross Poldark had been on a stormy day, as he and Francis had been riding out, defying the weather, young pups they were, full of vigour and daring.

“Cousin!” Francis had hailed the dark-haired youth, mane wild and eyes wilder as he rode a steed of purest black.

Ross Poldark had galloped towards them and George had thought that Francis’ cousin must be the incarnation of an avenging angel, all fire and brooding.

“George, this is my infamous cousin, the Dark Poldark,” Francis had laughingly introduced them. “And this is George Warleggan.”

Ross' eyes had roamed over him, curious and dismissive at the same time, causing a chill and thrill up George’s spine.

“Warleggan,” he’d drawled, and with a nod and a kick to his steed’s flanks, he was off, riding like the incoming storm off the Cornish coast.

To say that Ross Poldark had left an impression was to underestimate the profundity of that first meeting.

George had thought he’d be content to be friends with Francis - he was the one with the money, after all - and in truth, he liked Francis a great deal. He certainly liked how his friendship with the Fair Poldark opened doors that were previously closed to him. In those early days, wealth without a name meant very little and the Poldark name was ancient and mighty enough in Cornwall to cloak a ‘common’ Warleggan in its glory. Francis, luckily, was a lad easily amused and easily appeased and so their friendship had been one of easy camaraderie, indulging in anything young wealthy bucks were able to get away with.

In fact, George strove to emulate the aura of entitlement and confidence that Francis, being borne into wealth _and_ the gentry, wore so easily. It amused him at times how his friend could think himself so above everyone else, when he very often seemed the most naive and useless sort. Yet George counted himself fortunate that Francis’ nature was thus, for then he would not see how much of their friendship was based on how much the Warleggans could gain from their relationship.

Ross Poldark, in contrast, was a very different sort. Somehow from the very first day they’d met, George had always felt that Ross could see through the expensive finery he wore, down into his very soul. If and when the mood struck him to rouse and rebel with them, George had always felt that Ross was merely indulging them with his presence, his words and manner always underscored with a sense of sarcasm and subtle disdain.

Even though he knew that Francis was the Poldark to have in his corner, to achieve his ambitions with, Ross was the one he yearned to have as his friend, a want that surprised and alarmed him. At times he could not decide if friendship is what he truly wanted, for the foremost emotion he often felt was the need to best him.

Tonight was not any different.

§

The clock struck ten and a brief knock came from the door.

“Yes?” George called out and the servant entered.

“Captain Ross Poldark, sir, here to see you.” George nodded and waved at the servant to allow his guest to come into the library.

Ross entered with all the bluster of a cold winter’s storm, curls riotous, clothes dishevelled from the ride.

Although George took great pride in clothing himself in the latest and fanciest sartorial splendour, he admired Ross Poldark’s defiance of the fashion world. He also envied him greatly for being able to cut a dashing figure even in the most modest of homespun garb.

“Good evening, Ross,” he greeted his guest amiably.

“Good evening, George,” the man mimicked his tone, the ridicule in his quite evident.

“I must confess, I half expected you to ignore my invitation.”

“Believe me, I was tempted.”

“Yet here you are.”

“Here I am.”

“Help yourself to some brandy. It’s the ’85, best year in recent history.”

Ross walked over to the tray, took the bottle and turned it in his hand to admire the liquid’s shift in colours before pouring a generous glass for himself. He raised it in salute and took a healthy swallow. George watched the obvious pleasure on the man’s face as the spirit made its way down his throat.

Ross smiled most mockingly. “You spoil me. Or are you trying to mellow me, make me docile, like a lamb led to slaughter?”

George guffawed at that. “Come now, Ross, we both know you were always a wolf in sheep’s clothing!”

“The same can be said of you.”

“So you say.”

“So I _know_.”

George’s blood was up and the low simmering anticipation that had accompanied him throughout the day flared, knowing that soon he would get exactly what he’d always wanted.

“Would you like me to show you my teeth?” he asked, advancing on Ross.

“Would you like _me_ to show you _mine_?” Ross’ feral smile was _all_ teeth.

George was standing so close to him he could smell the brandy on his breath, the bay rum soap he’d used to wash. What a fine meal he’ll make, George thought to himself. His manhood stirred.

Out loud, he said, “How about we start with a kiss?” and leaned in, not waiting for permission, planting a hot kiss on Ross Poldark’s lips. He had thought that the ’85 was delicious, but on Ross’ lips it tasted of absolute sin.

“Is that what you call a _kiss_ , George Warleggan?” Ross rumbled when he finally stepped back.

He raised an eyebrow at the man’s impudence. “I promise you, Ross Poldark, none of my previous conquests had ever any call for complaint.”

Ross barked a laugh. “Is that what I am to be, your _conquest_?”

George bristled at that. _Damn_ that man’s insolence! And yet it only had a positive effect on his member. He winced slightly at the discomfort he was feeling.

“Do you still pretend that you have the upper hand? You have resisted for years, Ross, but in the end you came here tonight because you know the only way to survive is for you to surrender. To _me_.”

This time it was Ross to lean into him, invading his space like the black presence he was. In a voice as dark as midnight he said, “I may be here, but let me make one thing absolutely clear - this is _not_ surrender.” And with that, Ross grabbed his shoulders and kissed him in a way that he had never been kissed before.

His lips sought and demanded no retreat, his tongue invaded and claimed its stake, and George could only submit himself to it, like one does to a higher power. He was breathless when Ross eventually released him and his cock was straining, aching against its confines. Soon, he promised it, soon all will be revealed. He was gratified to know that he wasn’t the only one struggling for air. Or, indeed, erect, having felt the brush of something long and hard against his thigh earlier. It took a moment before he could speak again.

“You kiss like a tempest, all force and fervour.”

“You hate it?” Ross’ eyes smouldered. George wondered if he’d not invited the Devil tonight.

“Make me decide whether I do or do not.”

The kisses that followed were of the same quality, relentless like the gale winds and George was more than happy to be caught up in their violence.

“I’m not quite convinced yet,” he teased when they had to break for necessary air again.

“More?” Ross teased back, his lips swollen from their activities.

“More!” George demanded and was rewarded so.

Ross’ hands had previously been too busy clutching at his shoulders or cupping his head, but now they roamed, down his back, around his front, for a second brushing teasingly across the front placket of his breeches, before one moved to deftly pluck the buttons of his waistcoat, and the other to push his snuggly fitted coat off his shoulders. That wouldn’t do, George decided.

“Have a care, man!” George admonished him, “I might be eager but this is made of the finest silk, from the most exclusive tailor in London. One can not handle an exquisite piece like this with such bruteness.”

“Oh, I’ll show you a truly exquisite piece, Warleggan,” Ross chuckled, but took care with helping George with his finery.

“Do you say such pretty things to all of _your_ conquests?” George quipped, as Ross folded the jacket over the settee by the fireplace.

“Do you concede then, that _you_ are the conquered?” he shot right back. Again, George damned the man’s arrogance but could not deny that he felt exhilarated by it.

Handing him his waistcoat - which Ross took and, with a sardonic bow, laid next to the jacket -he surveyed the man in front of him. Ross was still wearing his coat, of a far inferior quality of course, but his shirt, having neglected to wear a waistcoat and a neckcloth, gaped, showing bronzed skin under manly chest hair. The bulge in his breeches pleased George and promised of more pleasure to come.

“How do you wish to proceed?” he asked, earning an amused smirk from Ross.

“So formal, always playing the gentleman.”

“I _am_ a gentleman,” George insisted as he eased the rough coat off Ross’ shoulders.

“And _I_ promise _you_ , I will not be gentle but I will be a man,” Ross said, his hand cupping George’s hardness and squeezing, only to frown and give a quizzical look. George smiled coyly, enjoying the confused look on his rival’s face.

“Being a _gentleman_ ,” he intoned, “and one of wealth, I might add, I have access to the latest and greatest in all facets of the fashionable world. And when I learned that such a thing exists, I could not resist. I hope it pleases you to know that I had this fashioned with just this moment in mind.”

George unfastened the placket of his breeches, his body tingling with lust and excitement, knowing he had Ross’ full attention and it directed at that which was about to be revealed from the confines of his breeches.

Ross’ eyes widened and George knew that the expense had been well worth it just for the look on the man’s face.

“What the-“ Ross tried to articulate but words seemed to fail him at that moment.

“Oh, have I finally managed to leave you speechless?” George preened, placing his hands on his hips to display his bronze codpiece in its fullest glory. The tailor had advised him that this would be the best pose.

“Is this where our copper and tin go to these days? Letting dandies play at medieval warriors?” Ross finally managed to scoff.

“It’s probably more copper you’ve seen in months!” George angrily retorted, his ire suddenly up. And yet his manhood strained even more against its fine metal prison.

“I have not come for copper tonight, I spend enough of my time mining for it!" Ross barked.

“What have you come for then?”

“Rid yourself of that piece and I will show you.”

George most eagerly did so, dropping the heavy piece on the floor, its clank too loud in the vastness of his library. His cock, finally free, jutted proudly out of its nest of curls. Ross’ hand, roughed from work, clasped it, his calloused thumb caressing the slit, from which a bead of moisture emerged.

“Tell me, George,” he said most casually, as he began to slowly pump his hand along the length, “Have you ever gone down a mine shaft?”

Caught up in the pleasure of having his cock stroked, he was bewildered by Ross’ conversation. “N-no, never,” he muttered, as a twist of Ross’ hand up his length shot a bolt of lightning down his spine.

“It’s dark and narrow and hot and it has killed many a man in its depths.”

“Wh-y-why are you—“ he stuttered as the pressure and movement of Ross’ hand increased. His other teased at his sacs.

“It is a dangerous business and yet…and yet, men go back. Men go back to plunder, in hopes some vein of pleasure is to be found.” Ross’ voice and his hands, they were weaving a magic upon his cock and George knew that it wouldn’t be much longer before he erupted in his culmination. He sought that pleasure, strained for it.

“Please,” he begged, not caring how he sounded. He rested his head against Ross’ chest.

The man’s voice was directly in his ear. “Sometimes, when I am down there in the pits, daylight left behind hours ago, slick with sweat and muscles aching, I am of the mind that mining is much like loving. So much anticipation, so much work, and for what? A moment’s pleasure, a vein of copper, a little death. What do you think, George?”

George could not reply. He felt his sacs tighten and then he was coming thick and fast, the load from his body coating Ross’ hands in its stickiness. He sagged against the man, the tiny lightning sparks in his body sapping him of strength and yet filling him with the utmost of bliss. He could feel the impression of Ross’ cock brushing his leg, and despite being a man who was primarily concerned with his own comforts, he was eager to let Ross have his satisfaction too this time.

“I cannot speak for mining,” George said once he felt sufficiently recovered, “But as for loving,” here he brushed his hand against Ross’ bulge, “I do have sufficient experience.”

“Sufficient?” Ross drawled, grinding himself against George’s hand.

“Well, one should not brag, now should they?” George replied prettily and sank down to his knees. He opened Ross’ breeches and marvelled at the cock that sprang free, thick and veiny, its purple head already glistening with moisture.

Ross’ actions upon George’s person must’ve been just as titillating to him as it had been to George. Lucky for Ross, he was in a mood to reward the man. Mirroring Ross’ actions earlier, he pumped the shaft once, twice, before he simply put his lips upon it and elicited the most sonorous groan out of the man. He sucked at the head, then swallowed as much of the length as he could, his tongue swirling along the underseam of Ross’ penis, causing the man to buck against his face. With a loud slurp, he released the member and looked up at Ross’ face. Flushed and sweating, it was obvious that he was enjoying it. But of course, he had to open that damn mouth of his.

“George Warleggan, on his knees in front of me…did you not believe - and kept telling me so - that _I_ would be the one to be in this position one day?”

“I can make you beg in many other ways,” George promised and sucked one of his bollocks into his mouth. Ross’ knees nearly buckled and he had to place a hand on George’s head to steady himself.

“You do not play fair,” he groaned, even as he placed pressure on the back of George’s head to encourage him.

“Have I ever?” George countered before licking a stripe up that sensitive strip of skin between the back and the bollocks. All that activity had his member stirred again and it was bouncing merrily against his thighs and his stomach. He looked back up at Ross who, although seemingly close to his own crisis, was looking down at him - always down, it seemed - stance still arrogant and confident in his superiority. So George decided that if Ross was to have his due, so would he. Again.

Releasing his hold on Ross’ cock, he quickly stood up and nearly laughed at the incredulity on the other man’s face. Even his member seemed to twitch angrily.

“What is this?” he demanded. “The Warleggan way? Doing half the work for all the pleasure received?”

“You’re mistaken, Ross,” George answered haughtily. “The Warleggan way is reaping twice the profit.”

“Ah and playing the friend when it suits you and withdrawing when it doesn’t?”

“Again, dear Ross, you are mistaken. I _am_ a good friend and have always been most generous to the ones I consider mine. I simply see no reason why you should have all the pleasure, when I can have mine too.”

A speculative gleam came into Ross’ eyes. “So, the Warleggan way?”

George tutted, “You’re about to be rewarded and yet you still can’t resist a barb, can you? Your tongue should be used for much better pursuits.”

“Are you saying you would like to be kissed again?”

“I would not be averse.”

If he had thought that Ross’ kisses earlier had been a tempest, now they were a maelstrom, one that pulled him in, until he thought he might expire from the sheer strength of it. If this was how Ross Poldark kissed, what danger and titillation awaited him in the second act?

“You must know how often I wish for you to bugger off, but if you wish me to bugger you, I advise we do so soon, for though I am a man of stamina, you have gone one round and my cannons are still lit and fully loaded.”

“Is that why they call you Captain?”

“Shut up, George, you’re making little sense and wasting my patience”

“Quite right and what a waste that would be.” George led him over to the desk, where he retrieved a small bottle of oil. Ross took it and poured a generous amount and warmed it between his palm.

“Where would you like me?” George asked flirtatiously.

“Where would you like to be had?”

George knew there was only one place he would have it happen - at his desk. How often had his mind wandered whenever Ross Poldark’s name and antics had been mentioned by his uncle while he was doing the accounts? How often had he to go over counting coins and checking figures because he had indulged in his most sordid of fantasies about the Dark Poldark?

He assumed the position, his torso supported by the heavy oak of his desk, and Ross stepped behind him, massaging the slick, warmed oil between his buttocks, his thumb grazing his puckered opening every now and then, yet not penetrating. His hands suddenly left and George looked behind to see that he was pouring more oil unto his palm. Then one hand returned, its gentle assault on his manhole firstly grazing, then circling, until he felt relaxed. Slowly, Ross pushed inside his sphincter, breaching him, the delicious push of his finger welcomed by his body. It rested inside, then retreated to repeat the assault again.

George was eager for Ross to reach that little button of pleasure inside of him, and he hungrily raised his body, in encouragement, in entreaty to the man. Miraculously, Ross seemed inclined to indulge him - although George suspected it was more because he needed his own release soon - and his finger - no, fingers! - now stimulated that most special place. George’s cock, trapped between the desk and his body, pulsed with excitement and again he strained for his release. And again, Ross’ hand left his body, and he nearly shouted at him in frustration.

Only, now a far heavier weight rested between his buttocks. Ross’ massive hard cock rubbed up between his cleft, causing George to push back, causing his cock to rub along the hardness of his desk. And then, Ross’ cock was at his entrance and entering, bit by bit, filling him with a fullness he had never felt before in there. And what wonderful fullness it was, thick, hot, vital and strong.

Ross pushed and he pulled and he rutted and George thought he might burst from all the glorious sensations. Ross’ cock hit the most sensitive spot most expertly, over and over again, and George thought that this wild ride was the best he’d ever had in his life.

With each deep thrust, George pushed back, just like how they had always been, and how they probably would always be, at odds with each other, yet taking pleasure in that way, both knowing it was the only way for both of them to be with each other.

Soon - far too soon, George thought, he could’ve have had this ride forever - he felt that familiar tingling and he spilled himself on his desk and then, Ross, heaving at his back, buried inside, groaned his own completion, the splatter of come warm and sticky inside his bowels.

For a moment, George felt the whole weight of Ross’ body upon his, and he thought that it felt cosy, comforting, welcome. And for a moment, he allowed himself to think what it would be like to have Ross Poldark as a friend - a true friend - and the human part of him mourned that which never was and will never be.

Thankfully, before his drowsy and dulled mind could utter something so pathetically sentimental, Ross retrieved himself from his body, leaving only his seed to trickle down George’s thighs.

§

They both retreated to a corner, to clean themselves and adjust their clothing in silence. When both were ready and dressed, they faced each other again.

“More brandy?” George offered, “I doubt you’ll have such fine spirits again so soon.”

“There’ll be other spirits to fill me,” Ross replied.

“How very you, Ross Poldark, to prefer cheap gin over the finest French brandy.”

“And how very you, George Warleggan, to think French brandy makes you the better man.”

“Tell me,” George had to ask, despite his caution for discretion earlier, “Could there ever have been a time where you and I could have been friends? Where we could have looked at each other as brothers in arms and not at the opposite ends of the battlefield?”

Ross looked at him, exactly the way he had that very first time they had met. “I think if you and I had been different men, perhaps. But we are not, and I am glad for it.”

George should have felt anger at that insult, yet what he felt was a strange sort of melancholy. “I find that I agree with you. I too am glad to be who I am. When you leave here, you will still have your failing mine and your mounting debts and I will have all the freedom in the world that only money can buy. So I pity you, Ross Poldark, I truly pity you.”

A swift inhalation from Ross had George taking a step back, anticipating an outburst of some sorts but the man merely smiled, that damnable smug smile of his. The one that always, without fail, burrowed under his skin and festered there.

“A word of advice, George, from a could-have-been friend to another - money can buy you a certain kind of freedom, and one I admittedly envy you for, _but_ it will not buy that which you truly crave.”

“And what is it that I truly crave?” George demanded, unable to resist the taunt.

But instead of giving a reply, Ross bowed smartly. “I fear it’s growing late, and I have only the full moon and my horse to guide me back to Nampara. Thank you for the brandy, George, it has been an evening.”

And with those words, Ross Poldark departed.

The fury that he had not let take-over earlier, rose up inside of him, and as George heard the galloping away of Ross’ horse, he grabbed the decanter of brandy and smashed it against the wall.

How, George thought, had he taken so much from the man and yet still was left with so little?

His eyes alighted on the discarded codpiece, the bronze shining dimly in the candlelight.

Earlier he’d feared he’d invited the Devil, but now he would gladly sign a pact with the King of Hell himself if it meant Ross Poldark would never ever see a vein of copper ever again in his lifetime.

**- _The End_ -**

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for giving this your time. Kudos and comments are highly appreciated!


End file.
